


Fade Kiss

by Nebulad



Series: To Live Without Fear [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Solas, F/M, Fluff, Other, rewrite: fade kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: “There’s no such thing as objectivity,” he shot back immediately, and she grinned, laying back and shifting her long black hair over his pillows.“Go on. You’ll bore me to sleep in no time.” He would have been annoyed except for the image of her in his bed was staggeringly domestic and he was trying not to indulge himself too much. Certainly the pillows would smell like the soap she used in her hair, that smelled like Crystal Grace. He… did not want that to happen, certainly.





	

It is two in the morning, and Solas is beginning to think that he’s in love with the Inquisitor.

He hadn’t slept since the night before, instead flipping through a book, all the more furiously because he could _hear_ Saevin reading faster than him. In his haste, he didn’t even notice himself begin to slip. A part of him forgot every day what Solas was supposed to be like when he assumed the role. _He_ was Solas, of course, but many of _his_ traits were too… much, perhaps, to blend into the Inquisition. His purpose was to observe and manipulate if needed, not to lead, and so Solas was withdrawn and spoke in insufferably self-important fables and proverbs. He was boring and his competitive streak was under control.

How unlike himself, who was nearly gnashing with frustration because he thought Saevin’s inability to read the Common would give him a leg up and it _wasn’t._ She was _pouring_ through books, using both hands to keep them open to the pages she needed. He was at a distinct disadvantage because he was forced to prove that he was right despite not being able to say _I was there. I saw it._ Using material written by scholars who didn’t know any better, no less. He only wanted to prove some foolish assertion about the true shape of architecture that she had only seen in its crumbling form, but she was being _stubborn_ and didn’t realise that there was no one _alive_ more pigheaded than him.

“In _this_ book, a Magister agrees with me,” she said, sliding the open page over to him as if he’d pause to look. “That’s three-nothing, Solas.”

“You’re _wrong,”_ he bit back, and she laughed, which did nothing for his knife-edge mood.

“Me and these three architects?” She gestured to the other open books he refused to look at, and he snapped the one in his hands closed. The only way would be to show her, he decided, although it might have been a risk. There was no precedent for how magic outside of himself would treat him should they be in the Fade together, but his best guess at the moment was that it would be inconsequential. The Mark didn’t even seem particularly aware of him, let alone fond.

“Come with me,” he said shortly, reaching out for her hand (spitefully, so she’d lose her place in her other book). She stood without his assistance (another disappointment) and followed him back to the small, spartan room he’d chosen as his own. He said _spartan_ as if he hadn’t made a mess of it all trying to… hide himself from the outside. Solas had to be dull and invite no further investigation, and it was _necessary_ that he ensure he would never be confused for the leader, intentionally to spite Saevin or not.

So here was where he kept his fresco paints, his books, his staff, the herbs he gathered while he was out, papers that were scattered everywhere by a breeze coming from one of the walls. Stray orbs of veilfire hovered lazily, sometimes blown about themselves and rolling against the cold stone, only to float back into place. Sweaters were strewn about as the room became too hot and too cold depending on the time of day and which way the wind was moving, and he neglected to make his bed (why bother when he spent so much time there?).

“Messy,” Saevin tsked, and he rolled his eyes.

“Sleep,” he ordered, gesturing to his bed. He could be in the Fade faster than she could, even in the overstuffed armchair he’d dragged into his room to act as a sort of hanger. The look she gave him in return for his very clear set of instructions was flat and skeptical; he gestured again, as if she were lacking in directions rather than motivation. “I will _show_ you that you are wrong,” he insisted.

“If you insist, but objectively I’m _not,”_ she said, setting herself down on his mattress.

“There’s no such thing as objectivity,” he shot back immediately, and she grinned, laying back and shifting her long black hair over his pillows.

“Go on. You’ll bore me to sleep in no time.” He would have been annoyed except for the image of her in his bed was staggeringly domestic and he was trying not to indulge himself too much. Certainly the pillows would smell like the soap she used in her hair, that smelled like Crystal Grace. He… did _not_ want that to happen, certainly. Ideally she would move on without leaving a mark, he told himself firmly, not even one of those lovely slept-in warm spots smelling of the cassia bark that her and Dorian used in droves. “Can you turn down the fire?” she asked, settling herself in with the blankets up over her back.

He did as she bade, watching the shadows around her face deepen and her irises dilate in the dark. The shine remained until her eyes closed and she wrapped herself around the largest of his pillows. Though he meant to be in the Fade before her, he watched until her breathing slowed, unconsciously tracing the lines of her pale tattoos down her skin. _Light, so you can see the freckles through them,_ she’d told him once, stretching her arms up and letting him see her back more fully.

With that particular image in his head, he fell asleep.

. . . . .

She dreamt of her Clan often enough that he didn’t need to be told where they were when he found her in the Fade. As a mage, Saevin had the power to modify what she was seeing when she dreamt. It was nothing but a conscious action on the part of one who could discern between the world of dreams and the world of wakefulness. His power was more potent, as he could _create_ while within— his conscious action was more direct and focused than hers.

So of course, he found her changing things that the Fade had gotten wrong about the camp. “The tents are too large,” she told him as she stared them down. “We’d never be able to move them if they were that size. They also put the pattern on the outside— we had to turn them inside-out so we would blend into the sand.”

“No doubt the Fade merely remembered the patterns and placed them logically,” he offered, trying to quell his impatience. They would find no ruins here— at least, not the ones he wanted. The arches they were arguing about were specific to the south, and Saevin’s clan wandered a route in Tevinter. “If you are done here,” he said, deciding against patience altogether, “we can continue.”

“By all means,” she said, gesturing for him to lead. It only took a wave of his hand to change the landscape— usually he preferred something more subtle, less jarring for the inexperienced Fade-Walker, but she didn’t protest. Sand melted into fields of grass, and the heat was replaced with the incessant Ferelden chill that she hated. She shuffled closer to him with a frown— and _there’s_ the twinge of guilt that makes her so singular in his head.

Anyone else and he could simply dismiss them. This was a failed timeline, as far as he was concerned, and whatever discomfort they bore was nothing compared to the tragedy that predated them. They were puppets playing out a dead game on a countdown until he could finally right things— all except Saevin, it would seem. He wouldn’t deny his… fondness, for the others. He tries not to show it— Solas is unfriendly, after all, not cruel but neither inviting— but Saevin draws on something personal in him, something he cannot withhold from her. He frequently wondered if it was the Dalish in her, or the _vallaslin_ that reminds him of his comrades, or the biting knowledge that reminds him of the scholars, his Mark making itself known to him, or… just her.

The thought is unsettling, but he holds out something warmer for her to throw over her clothes.

“ _Mythal’enaste_ don’t do that. It gives me a headache,” she scolded. _That_ is jarring for her. The whole landscape shifts under her feet and she doesn’t flinch, but he creates physical warmth and suddenly her head hurts. She took the sweater despite the pain, throwing it on and not moving away from him. “So show me the arches you’re wrong about.”

“I am not _wrong,”_ he insisted, gesturing sharply upwards from where they were standing. It was a beautiful spot, somewhere further south than the Inquisition had yet ventured. The light was low (comfortable) and despite the chill in the air, it was warm for a Ferelden evening. Crystal Grace grew nearby, and what would have been a ruin in the waking world was strong and whole, build sturdily with the aid of the _durgen’len._ Southern elves were always so much more… down-to-earth, perhaps, than those in the northeast where he’d spent the bulk of his time.

“Solas…” She sang it, and his stomach dropped.

She didn’t _sound_ wrong.

His head snapped up to the arch— square, with round accents, like she’d said. He’d been— he _remembered_ them being round altogether. “I _told_ you!” She gestured upwards, then over at the rest of the structure. “Elven ruins in Ferelden are _geometric._ The rounder shapes are decor, if they’re present at _all._ The _durgen’len_ influence—” she went on, while he gaped.

“I was _certain—”_

“You were. I’ll take my apology either written or in cakes.” She held her hand out as if he were in the position to readily give her either— well, he could magic up cakes but then she would complain of her headache. Gold bracelets dangled against her wrist, and she’d already pulled up the sleeves of the sweater he’d offered her.

It had to be about three in the morning by then, and Solas was almost certain that he was in love with the Inquisitor.

“How did you know?” he asked, which surprised him. He’d thought he’d be angrier about being wrong— remembering wrong, of all things, feeling the memories of his home stretch and blot like ink running loose on paper— but he was just… burning. Burning alive with questions. How had she known when he didn’t, he who had _been there,_ and she who was centuries from being born? She worked with patchwork scraps left behind by a dead race and their dead Empire, but she’d _known._ She’d pulled the threads together like magic, weaving an image of what was long since lost.

It was like Fade magic, but less tangible. Like what he did, but where there had been nothing, she created an idea. It was nowhere near the level of his own people, who had lived and breathed creation as a matter of course— but still, she _created._

He was… breathless. A little bit.

“Do you want to wake up first?” she asked, taking her hand back and stretching her arms. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep in that chair.”

“Or I could take you somewhere.” It was an impulse decision, to offer her… somewhere. The whole Fade was theirs; she only had to make a request.

“Like where?” Her arms were folded over her chest and she was still visibly cold, despite the fact that nothing around them was truly… anything, really. He would never say it wasn’t real, but nothing in the Fade ever _need_ be. If she was cold, she would only have to want warmth.

“Anywhere,” he returned, gesturing outwards. He changed nothing, simply… waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. _Here,_ in this world, he could give her that.

“Somewhere boring, then, or else I won’t be able to sit still to explain how you were wrong,” she teased, and he rolled his eyes. He wanted to take her somewhere important, to see what she made of libraries and gardens and castles— what she could create, despite everything.

He also wanted to impress her, because he was infinitely smaller than he believed and if he had to be wrong about the arches, then he wanted to make up for it in grandeur.

“Here.” He gestured carelessly, and they were in a much thicker, greener field. Mirrors surrounded them, almost liquid in design and glowing in the sunlight, their frames shining in silver and gold. It had been a transport field near a temple, but he would never be able to sit her down if he took her to the actual destination. She seemed just as awestruck by the field. “The Emerald Graves,” he told her, although he suspected she knew.

“Are those _eluvians?”_ she asked breathlessly.

“Indeed. I hadn’t known the Dalish studied them.” Hadn’t known they’d been remembered.

“Clan Sabrae made some… terrible headway into the field. It cost them two hunters and a First between two separate _eluvians._ A Grey Warden destroyed the first mirror because it was Blighted, and the First lost the other after Kirkwall fell,” she explained, reaching out to touch the glossy surface.

“Careful,” he warned. _“Eluvians_ are a concept that spirits cannot comprehend. Elven time was eternal, but linear; spirits have no concept of past, present, or future. They cannot grasp that one must move to travel, which takes time, and so their mimic of the _eluvians_ is limited.” She draws back her hand but her eyes are locked still as spirits pretend to move in and out of them. “So how did you know about the arches?”

“I told you, a little. In the south, the architecture is geometric which speaks of the relationship they had with the _durgen’len._ It’s sharper and more even than the more widely studied ruins in Orlais, and so if the arches with the rounded design on them were fully rounded, it would indicate some sort of outside influence. We _suspect_ that despite the convenience of _eluvians,_ travel wasn’t quite the same and so elves would be more… isolated. So especially in the deep south, there would be very little bleed over from any other pocket of civilisation.” An interesting hypothesis, although limited by their timeframe. _Eluvians_ would be a minor factor in the isolation of certain areas of Thedas.

“How did _you_ come to know? I had thought your area of focus was language.” She was remarkably skilled in Elvish, often able to contextually pick up on his meaning despite missing large chunks of vocabulary.

“Everyone has hobbies,” she said with a shrug, finally settling down beside him. Their arms were close— with minimal movement, he could be touching her. His hand against hers. His arm brushing by. He wondered if she could tell that he was thinking about it, or if she thought so often about what _he_ felt like. “I have a question for _you_ now,” she said, turning to him and meeting his eye.

“Go on.”

“You can just… make something from nothing here?” she asked, and he nodded. “That’s what makes Dreamers different. You can create where I can only modify.”

“That is an oversimplification, one that is detrimental to your own ability. The only difference between you and I is that you need clay to mould, whereas I can create my own.” He might have thought differently before, but the shock of this world had largely passed. He would have given a great deal for Saevin to have grown in timeline where she could create as he did, but her own power was formidable in its own right. To shape was no less than creation.

She looked at him for a moment, like she was trying to decide what she wanted to respond with. “That was sweet.” He felt self-conscious under her gaze, which was so _strange._ He was a warlord, possibly the only one who remained of his people, and _ages_ older than anyone alive, and she was making him feel… _watched._ “Can you make something right now?” she asked when he didn’t respond.

He nodded mutely, suddenly not trusting himself to speak. He had a purpose in the Inquisition after all, and this intensity had no place. This whole… this was a bad idea, but she started as she always did with drawing him out. He wanted companionship so much that he’d indulged his own fascination with her. She couldn’t have known that he had to stay away from her— she was just friendly. And kind. And intelligent.

With all the subtlety of Sera after four shots, he covered her in flowers.

She laughed, hopefully in delight instead of derision, lifting up a handful of the little white buds he’d breathed into existence. Blowing on them, she allowed them to take flight as moths, escaping into the air and disappearing. “You’re so strange,” she accused once they were out of sight, but she was smiling kindly enough.

“Oh?”

“Every time I think I have you figured out— that I know what you’ll do or how you’ll react— you throw me. I didn’t expect flowers.” He wouldn’t have given them, truthfully, if he hadn’t already known she liked them. She was a sort of inspiration, perhaps, for many of his more reckless impulses. Never let it be said he needed _help_ to be foolhardy, but regardless.

“It’s your own fault,” he accused lightly. “You change everything.”

She dropped her gaze, her expression odd and thoughtful. “Sweet-talker.” He nearly snorted, because of all the things anyone had ever called him, _any_ variation of _sweet_ was plainly off the table. He was saved from the self-deprecation, however, when her hand moved to his face. He found his breath frozen in his throat for a moment, because certainly she didn’t mean to—

— but she did. She leaned up and kissed him, warm and quiet. It was spur of the moment but not aggressive, and soft soft _soft_ like she was afraid to shatter him (or be shattered in return). He reached up for her hand on his cheek, because her hands were singularly fascinating to him and frankly she hadn’t taken his earlier when he offered, and it wouldn’t occur to him until he opened his eyes on the overstuffed armchair that for the first time since he’d awakened, he’d all but forgotten _elvhenan._

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and I know, here I said I was done with him and yet? This happened. It's like the first fic I published, Fade Date, only. Not.


End file.
